FOREWORD
I believe everyone has experienced coincidences in their lives that have left them wondering how lucky they were--but could those experiences have really been divine interventions, veiled as coincidences? We have all had incidents that, as we look back, we question, could it have been?
As I look back on my life, I vividly recall several such situations where I was faced with a horrible set of circumstances, some in which I probably would have died or been severely injured, which somehow turned out for the best or at a minimum, okay. The time I fell asleep driving, only to wake up at the last moment before crashing into an abutment; the time (in what I call "my stupid years") when I almost drowned trying to swim across a lake to prove a point, but just as I gave up and started to go under, somehow found the strength to continue. I still remember how peaceful I felt at the prospect of giving up.
There was the time in my early twenties when I was fueling the lawn mower and suddenly realized I was also smoking a cigarette. I immediately threw the smoke away. Seconds later, as I finished fueling, the plastic nozzle of the gas can flipped up and sprayed gas all over my face. My neighbor rushed me to the hospital, my eyes blinded and burning from the raw gasoline.
When I was three years old, I was sleeping over eighteen hours a day; doctors discovered I had a dislocated heart which was pushing against my ribcage, not allowing it to pump needed blood. My parents were told there was a common operation for that type of condition, but the mortality rate was fairly high. If I didn’t have the operation, I would have been lucky to live a couple of more months. There were no good options. My parents were referred to Doctor Berman, a heart specialist, who had developed a brand new type of operation. I was the guinea pig for this procedure. Of course it was successful, and is still used today. A girl my age, who had shared the same hospital room with me, had the old type, standard operation. She passed away days later.
I ponder many of these times in my quieter moments. The years have taken a toll on my memory, but certain things have remained and probably always will.
On March 9 of 2008, my wife and I were vacationing in a private RV park in the desert of Arizona, about an hour north of Phoenix. I was going to set up a small dredge in a stream that had recently started to flow due to some heavy rains. It was nine o’clock in the morning and I had eaten a good breakfast of bacon and eggs, compliments of my wife, Anita. I was able to borrow a four-wheeler from someone at the RV park where we were staying, and a friend decided to ride down to the stream with me on his ATV. He could stay only a few minutes, but wanted to see me set up the dredge. To get to where I wanted to search for those little gold nuggets, we had to negotiate a steep hill down to the creek bed and then carry the equipment about forty yards.
Finally there and the equipment pieced together, I put my waders on and was trying to start the dredge’s engine. I suddenly became very warm, followed by profuse sweating. The sun had come out, and I thought the waders, which were chest-high and insulated, were causing me to overheat. Within another minute, I felt nauseated and soon after that, lost my breakfast. I sat on a boulder in the middle of the stream thinking, I must have eaten something bad.
My friend told me I didn't look very good, kind of ashen-white, and thought maybe I should go back and lie down. I continued to sit there for a short time, considering what to do, but finally decided he was probably right, as I continued to sweat profusely. He told me he had to get back--he had an appointment. I tried to get up, but all my energy was sapped. I asked him to stay a few more minutes. I found I couldn't even take my waders off; he had to help. I could barely even put my boots back on and left the laces untied.
We left all the equipment where it was. It took every ounce of energy I had to get back to my four-wheeler and make it take me up the hill to my RV. Once there, I lay down on the couch. My friend went and summoned a nurse practitioner who happened to be staying at the park, a friend of theirs. She brought her blood pressure cuff, but couldn’t get a reading. They called for an ambulance—I was in full cardiac arrest.
The lights were dimming; my arms and legs went numb. I could barely see anyone. My wife stood at my feet. I could see the concern in her eyes and I tried to tell her I loved her, but the words wouldn’t come out. I heard someone say they hoped the ambulance arrived quickly. I then realized I was dying.
Could this be it, I asked myself? Is this the way it all ends? It was a peaceful way to die—no pain at all. Minutes later, when all I could see was faint light, I heard someone say into my ear, “This is going to hurt a little,” then ‘WHAM.’ The paramedics shocked me with a defibrillator. Within seconds, warmth began returning to my extremities and my sight gradually returned. I felt great. I wanted to get up and tell everyone, including the paramedics, “Okay, you can go now.” I realized there and then my life had taken a significant turn, I was no longer that invincible person.
A life-flight helicopter flew me to a heart hospital in Phoenix where I stayed for five days and had a defibrillator/pacemaker implanted. Through the medicine-induced fog, I remember one of the first things my cardiologist at the hospital said to me, “Do you know how lucky you are?” I did not, and I didn’t understand what he was trying to say.
Later, I found I had joined the “Eight Percent Club;” only eight percent of patients having a cardiac arrest outside of a medical facility survive. My heart had taken a beating (no pun intended); it was enlarged and only pumping about thirty percent of what it was supposed to. I heard talk of a heart transplant.
I relate this story because: 1) If I had never met and been friends with that certain person in the RV park—I’d be dead. 2) If he hadn’t accompanied me to the stream- I’d be dead. 3) If I hadn’t borrowed the four-wheeler, I would never have made it to the top of the hill—I’d be dead. 4) If the nurse practitioner hadn’t been there to immediately know what was wrong—I’d be dead. 5) If my neighbors hadn’t been friends with the nurse practitioner—I’d be dead.
If each of these obstacles that were overcome hadn’t come together, I wouldn’t be here to write this novel. Was it a miracle or just a tremendous set of coincidences? I know what I believe; you must find your own beliefs. Which brings us to our story.
I NEVER remember my dreams. My wife wakes up almost every morning and relates this or that about her dreams from the previous night’s sleep, and they’re usually pretty funny. I always draw a blank—except for one morning about a month after my cardiac arrest. The book you are about to venture into was given to me in that dream. As soon as I arose that morning, I grabbed a yellow legal-sized pad and wrote three pages of notes describing the different chapters and characters, and even part of the title. The following story is from those notes. I hope you enjoy it.
Consider retracing your own life’s experiences and ask yourself…was it just a coincidence or was I the recipient of something more miraculous?
